Artpark, the astonishing grounds for investigation for artists doing work on the land, provided me with the opportunity to do a birthday celebration for the fifth year. I planted rows of scarecrows rather than corn on the spoils pile, a place where chemical waste from Love Canal was buried my god, whitewashed them so they could be viewed at night and then, burned the entire assemblage down with much histrionics, the intervention of weather and which lead to an unexpected evening in jail. Silent.

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